And She's Dangerous
by TimeOfYourLife
Summary: Diana Foxe; M16 Agent. Sherlock Holmes; consulting detective. It could never work.
1. Chapter 1

**And She's Dangerous**

**Chapter One**

**_"She's a rebel,_**

**_She's a saint,_**

**_She's salt of the earth,_**

**_And she's dangerous"_**

_John_

The cosy mess of 221B Baker Street looks so welcoming now, after another day, another case finally solved. Cold steel, white labs, gunshots – all can be forgotten. Block out the science equipment littering what should be the dining table and the living room almost looks normal. Faded cushions, piles of tatty books, dull carpet and pictures on the walls. Keep the fridge door closed and it's fine. I look at Sherlock, and his faced doesn't mirror the inward sighs of relief I feel. He has rounded the sofa and his face is sharp, his head tilted and his brow furrowed.

His lips move briefly. "Diana." He says the name in the lowest humming murmur, but draws out the syllables melodically.

I walk to stand next to him, too exhausted to ask him.

Sure enough, there's Diana Foxe curled up, asleep, on our sofa.

Wild dark curls are matted with sweat and her caramel skin glistens with it, dirtied with mud and wounds. Several slashes on her arms weep redness, and her left cheek is caked in blackened blood. Black cut-off shorts are tight against her taut thighs, her muscles clenched in her sideways crouch. Her baggy white shirt clings in places from sweat, stained with patches of scarlet, ripped and fraying round the edges.

MI6 agent. Started in linguistics, now a top operational officer overseas. A beast of an interrogator, lethal in combat, perfect shot, fluent in countless languages and with an almost too quick-witted awareness capable of manipulation and strategic skill beyond belief. Known through Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. Sherlock had met her once, when she'd dropped down from the roof in Mycroft's office.

"Diana Foxe?" I say to Sherlock. I blink as I utter the words, and just like that she is on her feet, her gun trained on me. I've never seen someone snap out of sleep quicker with the possible exception of my flatmate.

Quicker again than I can grasp the situation, her body has relaxed and the gun dropped, her lethally beautiful face melting into a magnetic smile.

"Sorry," she says smoothly, "Just being cautious."

I nod my acceptance, still slightly shocked, and turn to Sherlock for assurance. But he is watching her, with a quiet fascination only evident by his bright eyes. His face is as controlled, as always.

"Nice to see you again Sherlock," she nods to him, and a twitch of a smile graces the corner of his mouth before his expression is set again. "And you must be Dr. Watson. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise. Did… Sherlock tell you about me?" I try to offer a smile.

"No." Her head flicks around the room as if it were a routine check, then back to me with gracious concern in her eyes. "You must be wondering why I'm here."

"Well you're obviously-" Sherlock begins his act but her sharp green eyes flash at him.

"I'd like to explain myself, Sherlock, as much as I enjoy your little deductions. John, I needed a place to go. I've got an Italian mafia gang after me. If I went to a hotel, they'd kill the customers. If I went to a friends' they'd kill them. If I went somewhere on my own there's a good chance 30 vs. 1 I'd be outnumbered. You'd think they'd set me up with a secure location but once you get to a certain level with MI6, their expectations of you rocket; you're on your own. I couldn't go anywhere without putting someone in danger, and I thought you," she looks briefly at Sherlock, then back to me, "Would be better at coping with it.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to put you in danger."

"It's fine," Sherlock's voice is cold and commanding, as if to settle the matter. She shoves her gun into the back of her shorts and rubs her face, dropping some of her composed pretence.

"I can't believe I fell asleep," she mumbles. "So unprofessional."

"You're obviously exhausted. Want me to take a look at your… wounds?"

"Oh these? I'm fine, had much worse. Go to bed Dr, you need to sleep. And you." She turns her gaze to Sherlock.

"What about _you_?" he drawls reservedly.

"I need to stay on guard. I'll lead them away."

"I'll wait with you."

"It's dangerous."

"I like danger."

"I'm dangerous."

"I like danger."

I watch the exchange with tired interest. Both stand defiantly, holding themselves proudly. Diana's angular features, from her high cheekbones to her straight nose to her square jaw, are clenched stubbornly. Sherlock's eyes are focused, insisting. Then both give way to amusement, brief smiles and locked eyes. Beginning to feel uncomfortable, I excuse myself.

"I really am sorry Dr. Watson," she says to me with genuine sincerity.

I hesitate, watching her watching me for a reaction. "Call me John."

She smiles, and it is sincere. This one has feelings.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**_"Is she dreaming,_**

**_What I'm thinking,_**

**_Is she the mother of all bombs,_**

**_Gonna detonate?"_**

_Diana_

"Thirty?"

"Give or take."

"Armed?"

"Heavily."

His eyes glisten like silver orbs, moons, in the night light.

"What do we need to do?"

"They'll only send a couple in I think, seeing as this is a busy area, because

they-"

"Underestimate you," he finishes.

"That's right."

"Any previous run-ins?"

"Yesterday. I nearly had them. They overpowered me."

"But you got away."

"I always get away."

"Not before they tried to rape you." His voice is emotionless. As is my facial reaction.

"Tried," I hiss back. Short temper. "Only tried."

"But you got away."

"I _always_ get away." I cock my gun with a hard menacing snap and try to leap off the couch. The pain in my side suddenly accelerates from a dull throbbing to a firecracker of white-hot agony.

"Fucking Jesus," I curse, clasping the far side of my abdomen. Dropping my gun I fall back onto the sofa to my previous position.

Sherlock doesn't react immediately. He watches with quiet interest, not shock.

"You were shot."

"Well observed," I gasp.

"I noticed earlier."

"It's brilliant that you're so on form tonight Sherlock, but thanks for all the fucking concern," my voice is strained with pain, and anger at the inconsiderate bastard.

It's not like he leaps into action, but he moves. He kneels down next to the sofa and reaches his huge hand out to the bottom of my shirt. I clench it down unwillingly. His metallic eyes flash up at me.

His hand slowly clasps my wrist, a strong snowy white bracelet clashing against my tanned forearm. I'm not one to falter under pressure, and his penetrating gaze I have been trained to ignore such like. But something in the serious but relaxed line of his mouth and the smoothness of his brow makes me loosen my grip. He breaks his gaze as soon as and pulls up the corner of my shirt.

There's a lot of blood. His steady breathing doesn't falter but his eyes sharpen.

"I'm fine."

"I don't doubt it. It's only a graze, side of your pelvic bone. No internal damage, just serious bruising and loss of blood."

"I know." His hand is cold, but I feel warm.

"But you _are_ in pain."

"It's durable."

"I can wake John. He's a very good doctor."

"Don't, he should sleep."

"You're in agony."

"I have been _trained_ to withstand _torture_," I snarl, "I think I can cope."

The faintest trace of a smile. "You have quite a temper Foxe."

"Well, you're infuriating."

"Most people are."

"You're not like most people."

"Is that an insult?"

"No."

He pauses, and looks at me with interest. I might have imagined the grin.

"Have a shower Foxe."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_"**Missing link on the brink,**_

_**Of destruction"**_

_Sherlock_

Green eyes. Dark brown flecks in the left one. Naturally curly hair, dark brown, golden highlights from sunlight most likely. Five foot eight. Posture of a soldier, awareness of a spy, agility of an agent. Intelligent.

Her hands are rough, calloused. Strenuous, physical cases more than computer work. Operational officer, not a hacker. Authority. She reeks with power. Stubborn.

A sailor. All in the hands and stomach muscles. Traveller. Can't stay in the same place long; uneven tan lines. Single. Permanently so; her job allows no room. Lonely. Proud. Pain in her eyes, not her composure. Strong. Mentally and physically. Not just from training, from born will as well-

Dammit! Rookie mistake.

I break through the locked bathroom door. Sure enough, it is deserted. The window is open, the thin white net curtains floating like ghosts of a presence in the night breeze. The stars taunt me. You let her get away.

I scan the room. She left fifteen or so minutes ago…

I pause for a moment. Should I go after her?

"Holmes."

She is back in the living room. More blood, more pain in the eyes. Shadows.

"Time to wake John," I murmur.

"In the morning," she mumbles, her gun slipping from her red, slippery fingers. She crumples to the floor right there. I wish I didn't feel so helpless.

"You went to find them. What-"

"Disarmed the leaders. Police got the rest."

"You were up against three leaders. It's obvious from the bruising. How…"

But she's already slipped into her subconscious. Some buried instinct wills me to place her gently on the sofa cushions, but logic tells me it would hurt her too much to move her.

I very rarely feel helpless. Trying to ignore the strange sensation of a "niggling doubt" I leave the beautiful broken woman bleeding on my floor.

I don't sleep that night. Snatches of dreams invade my brain even though I am awake. There's blood, and floating curtains.

When I pad out of my room in the morning I am only half surprised to find she has gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"_**She went away and then I took a different path**_

_**Seems that she disappeared without a trace"**_

_John_

"Sherlock?"

His lean figure remains still, only the dark curls on his head flickering from the steady breeze skirting through the wide-open window. Sherlock doesn't reply. I shuffle forward wearily, wondering what hectic happening has now occurred, forgetting momentarily about the events of last night. They flood back like a spring tide when I see the blood stains on the floor, and _that_ look on Sherlock's face.

It's easy to explain physically. His face is blank, of course, as always. Pale alabaster skin without one crease, one line of distress or confusion. His features are deadly still, like a frozen corpse. His mouth in a straight, serious line, but relaxed enough.

But I know Sherlock well now. And his eyes. His eyes are wider, just by the tiniest fraction. And the secret lies in those icy depths. Sherlock looks, dare I say it, helpless. He looks soulless, if one ever believed he had one.

"You like her," I say. I don't ask, I state. His lips barely move.

"Who?" The lowest rumble, like a dying mans last words.

"You know who I'm talking about Sherlock," I try wearily.

"Diana is…" But he never finished. The pause hangs in the air, until he snaps out of it and strides swiftly to the door.

"Lestrade called. We've got a case."

I decide not to press the matter any further. "Okay. Okay, let's go then."

Grabbing my coat, I join him by the door, but he doesn't make the usual dashing exit. He pauses, his gaze lingering on the open window. Not analysing, for _once_, just looking.

"She saved my life, once."

Then he hurries on swiftly, and I can barely tell if I imagined it or not.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Flashback<em>**

_"Come on Sherly, show us what's in your bag," The boy shoved the smaller kid to his knees. The child was scrawny, pale, a mop of unruly dark hair obscuring his features._

_"It's an experiment," he squeaked out, "Don't touch it."_

_The older boys grab the rucksack and emptied its contents onto the pavement. Test tubes smashed, and a few fallen bugs scuttled away from the pooling, fizzing fluids. Little Sherlock watched his work sink into the pavement cracks and looked up at the ugly lad. His mind worked quickly, analysing why the boy had done it. Even as a child, he could see that the boy was a bully because he was abused at home, he only smashed up Sherlock's work because he was jealous that he didn't do as well in school… but Sherlock didn't care. He couldn't control his emotions. He flew into a frenzy and launched himself at the older boy. The surrounding lads shoved him back easily, laughing at him. The leader pushed him up against the wall._

_"You think you're better than me freak boy? You want me to prove myself huh?" The boy picked up a cracked test tube and rammed the jagged edge into little Sherlock's skinny white thigh. Sherlock screamed as the pain exploded in his leg and his breath hitched at the sight of his own pooling blood. He began to cry, and this only egged on his bully. The boy raised the shard, and Sherlock coldly calculated his chances as he watched the glass glisten in the sunlight. He feebly considered all his options like a map in his head, but decided it was hopeless. Mummy, I hope you don't find me. She never liked the sight of blood._

_Then, "HEY!" The female voice was young. He recognised it. His brain tried to place it, filtering through all the undeleted person files. While his mind worked, he felt his body drop as his attackers grip loosened. She had sent him flying. He heard her sharp, threatening words and their retreating steps. Diana. She was Diana._

_"You're Mycroft's brother, aren't you?" she said, and he looked up into her green eyes, her, seemingly angelic to him, face, surrounded by fleeing curls unrestrained by the girlish plaits. "You're Sherlock." She was only a year older than him, like Mycroft._

_She had never called him a freak._

_Most people he knew called him a freak._

_He didn't understand why she helped him, so he did all he could resort to, and he began to cry._

_"Hey, Sherlock," she soothed, "It's alright. You're better than them. Don't cry."_

_And he didn't. Ever again._


End file.
